


A Million 'Sympathy for the Devil' Jokes Were Spared in the Making of this Ficlet

by baehj2915



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bottom Erik, M/M, american gods style gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baehj2915/pseuds/baehj2915
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik the artist is looking for a model who looks like Satan. Charles delivers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angelic

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off this [tumblr prompt](http://jabletown.tumblr.com/post/122616598463/theletteraesc-knitmeapony-bamf-happens). The first part is that tiny ficlet from Erik's pov. The second is based off of [lachatblanche's tags](http://lachatblanche.tumblr.com/post/122618453539/jabletown-theletteraesc-knitmeapony) that maybe Charles should actually be Satan.

“Really?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

Erik has been looking at a variety of men–mostly men, and a few forward thinking women who went to Catholic schools as children– these past few days. And the overall look hadn’t been as homogenous as he’d expected. But more than a few pale-skinned men with arch, black goatees or long black hair wearing red jackets or leather pants have shown up at his studio in recent days, so, frankly, the man in front of him is a bit shocking.

Perhaps man is a little too strong. This kid is college, as a best case scenario. He is pretty. Predominantly pretty. He does seem to exude a little energy, taking a tour around the sculptures and paintings in the gallery, stepping lightly off his heels. Hardly a flowery kind of pretty, but he has no menace or darkness about him.

Erik isn’t a Christian, but he kind of thought that was the whole point of Satan.

“I guess I don’t see the resemblance,” he shrugs. “If I had to I’d pick you as an angel.”

The kid turns around from Erik’s favorite ferromagnetic sculpture with a doubtful, and infuriatingly smug, smirk on his face. His very blue eyes are washed even more clear from an opposite skylight. Erik can very nearly see through them.

“You are aware that Satan was an angel, right.”

Erik nods, because he knows, even if he doesn’t really. Fallen angel, as in not anymore. He’s doing this mostly for the satire, not because of a burning interest in Christian mythology. Most of the incarnations of Satan he’s seen have been red-colored bat-winged demon creatures, if not insulting Jewish caricatures. 

The boy doesn’t let him explain anything. “Lucifer means morning star. In the bible he’s called ‘son of the dawn.’“ He pauses to recite something by rote, “’Such men are false apostles. And it is no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.’ Really your request was pretty silly. Why would Satan look like what we’ve imagined him to. He would be… unlikely. And beautiful.”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “And that’s why you’re the best Satan?”

The boy grinned, reddening his lips even more, and shrugged like the self appointed complement was nothing but accurate.

Erik wasn’t about to argue.


	2. Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Devil wants his due. But he'll settle for a blowjob.

He looked fondly at Erik’s drying hair. It was longer than when they met and curled slightly after sweating. Erik was already asleep, tender little human. 

He frowned and licked away another spoonful of rainbow chip frosting. 

This was not, strictly speaking, a win for him. Not even remotely. 

There was a great deal of misapprehension about what he did and does, who and what he is, and not to mention about the order of things in general. He has been greatly demonized. Fucking literally. 

Christian propaganda. 

Now there was a son of a bitch who won the lottery ticket in terms of celestial infamy.. Though, he supposed, many thought the same thing about Zeus or Inana once. Give it a few millennia and maybe things will be different. Jesus wasn’t exactly his brother, though technically his brother. All his other brothers and sisters, so-called angels, were similarly assholes about his whole profane nature, though. 

But he lives for, what they all live for, is power. And for them, power is only given through devotion. Believers. If you’re lucky, worship.

The problem in gaining power or devotion is that devotion must be given in accordance with the realm of their influence. Which is where the burden of his millenia long Bible thumping character assassination comes into play. 

Lucifer was called the serpent, the father of lies, the enemy, lawless one, tempter. The Antichrist. He was no more a liar or tempter than any gods were. Less so, maybe, given his ordinance. 

If there were any fairness, he’d be recognized for what he is: the god of questioning, reason, and enlightenment. 

He supposed you could tack on anarchy because as far as epithets go the “lawless one” isn’t really inaccurate. 

The inherent problem of gaining any power as the god of questioning is that the very drug he peddles is the thing that negates the currency he’s paid in. When he does get a soul on the path of radical questioning, they’re hardly going to be responsive to hearing he’s an immortal being of light unfairly maligned by a pantheon of jumped up myths. Of fucking course it’s not hard for Jesus to be the billionaire of gods--his ordinance is faith. Faith is needed for belief and faith is the power he gives. 

How the ever living fuck was that allowed to happen?! It’s like being the world’s champion of breathing. In that way, he is the Antichrist. He just wished humans could be a little cool about it, but that’s the whole faith thing in a nutshell. 

His job, like everyone else’s, is to gain believers. And when he looked at the man laying face down next to him, starting to drool on his pillow, that’s not at all what he’d done. 

To be fair it was not the first time he’d seduced someone for their soul and wound up with only the seduction part instead. It was mildly disappointing, so earthly. But just as fun for how earthly it was. 

And if he were being honest with himself, he knew from the beginning he was never going to get very far with Erik. One can’t expect much from ironically showing up to a newspaper ad for someone who looked like Satan. (How could he resist?) Erik himself was already outrageously cynical, distrusting of power structures and anyone with power, atheist and Jewish. 

Strictly speaking, he could gain followers, for a value of following as it were, outside Christian influences, but it was ridiculously hard when they never thought he existed in the first place. 

The problem with realizing he was not going to be worshipped is that it leaves him hungry. Hungry, in the real, inhuman sense. There were real Satanists, but they were few, and mostly do it out of spite. They provided a snack in most cases, not really a meal. And if they’re really, truly understanding of the principles of questioning they didn’t rightly call themselves worshipers or invoke his name. 

So he was hungry. Often. Never more so than when he knew he couldn’t sink his fingers into a soul. 

He does try to be sated with earthly fulfillments, but it’s never the same thing. 

For one, humans get sleepy after sex. It’s one of several biological incompatibilities that vex him. He wanted to reach inside the core of Erik and caress the indelible sustaining fire of his soul, but had to settle for orgasms. He doubted there’s an exchange rate between the types of hunger, but he was certain it would leave a normal human a dehydrated sex-fueled heart attack victim. 

Erik conveniently fluttered awake, which possibly might have been nudged by a deliberate stirring of his consciousness. He doesn’t feel bad about it and Erik was barely asleep anyway. 

Erik moaned through his nose, stretched a little, and looked up at him, not turning from his stomach. Charles, the name he was going by these days. Charles _Xavier_ , because blasphemy never ceased to be funny to him for some reason. The body of Charles Xavier was not always been the one he’d occupied, but he’d had this one for ninety years almost. Erik quite liked it, which was a fair reaction--He liked it too. It was sporty, but soft and unassuming. 

“Are you eating frosting?” Erik croaked. 

He offered Erik a spoonful, but Erik tightened his lips like a disdainful baby. He shrugged and slid it across his tongue. 

“You eat more junk food than anyone I’ve ever seen over the age of seven,” Erik said disapprovingly, but not-at-all-disapprovingly slid a large, square palm over the meat of Charles’ inner thigh. 

No earthly foods truly satisfied him, but the effect of sugar on his tongue at least echoed ambrosia. 

“Pleasure is one of the inalienable rights, darling. You must seize it fully. Especially after it’s been discontinued by fascist frostingmongers. I refuse to be denied rainbow chips.” 

Erik snorted in laughter, and offhandedly said, “I adore you.” 

He immediately felt that Erik did not mean it in the traditional sense of adoration. To worship rapturously, transformatively, with passion that alights the soul. It was just a pleasing word to human sentiment. To them, the word to avoid is love. Love is too revealing or too much. 

Erik could not know adoration is word like a single match in the dark. And Erik did not plan to worship him, but there was enough there to grab a hold of, so he did.

He licked his lips clean, put the frosting on the headboard on top of a book of Erik’s, and straddled Erik’s backside. Erik tensed and pushed back into Charles’ hips instinctively, while he slid his hands over Erik’s shoulders. 

He fell low, covering Erik’s body with the one he’s in, and whispered in Erik’s ear, “How much do you adore me?” 

For a second, against all previous logic, in the sticky way humans feel things, there was something real. Like meat before a starving dog. A touch of grace, a flash of devotion, bred by concupiscence, but still there and tangible and satisfying. He shuddered from the briefest moment of satiation.

Erik breathed heavily into his pillow. He was afraid of the question, or rather, afraid of the answer, so asked it in return. “How much do you adore me?” 

Charles’ stomach clenched and his cock thickened, inching at the cleft of Erik’s ass. Erik’s hips push back against the feeling, as his face reddens into the pillow. Erik was ashamed, he realized, even if it was mild and didn’t stop him from yearning for Charles’ touch. 

He raked his fingertips down the small of Erik’s back, encouraging him to arch into the touch so he could whisper into Erik’s ear while still grinding against him. 

“Why are you hiding your face, hm? Why are you ashamed?” 

“I’m not.” But Erik didn’t really feel it. He could tell from the desperate grasp of Erik’s hands in the sheets. 

“Never be ashamed of such a sweet desire, Erik. You were fucked well earlier and you want it again. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s perfectly sound reasoning.”

Erik shook his head, but laughed into the pillow, looked back over his shoulder with a smile. “Are you going to adore me, or what?” 

He groaned at the smell of acceptance and pushed Erik’s underwear down to his knees again. He fucked his fingers into Erik’s hole, still slick with lube and come from earlier. Charles touched inside him, losing his breath a little while Erik clenched and shifted around him and made quiet noises in the deep of his throat that never made it past his teeth. 

After the accouterments of human lovemaking--a condom and more slippery lube pushed in with slippery fingers--he slid into Erik almost too easily. They both made sharp noises, like they punched the air out of each other in one go. It was hard to move forward from there, but his body was knowledgeable in its urges and pushed Erik’s thighs apart, and grasped around his lean sides, hips fucking intuitively. 

“I prefer it like this,” he said, gaspy, unbidden and surprising himself. “Fucking you after I’ve already fucked you. I like how welcoming it feels.” 

Erik let out a cut-through sound and reached back with a long arm to pull Charles closer into him, dropping his shoulders down into the mattress. He could still hear Erik’s pillow muffled shout of the name “Charles” though. Struggling to stay upright, he reached around to milk Erik’s cock. 

Erik’s thighs trembled and suddenly Charles felt dense and--full. And Erik came, with him not long after, but secondary to the immense profundity of a different kind of release he was feeling. 

He collapsed next to Erik, out of sync with his joints, which were faster than his brain. Fullness wrung through him, a feeling so infrequent he’d almost forgotten how good it felt. This was why humans fell asleep after fucking or eating so often. He felt like a torpid, liquid drift of lava. A new surge in his ageless stagnancy. 

“You rejoice my name,” his voice creaked. 

“Huh?” Erik said, still breathing heavily, his hair curling more and darkened with sweat again. 

He shook his head, knowing somewhere, in the cosmic disarray of ceaseless scorekeeping, Charles was being added to his list of holy names.


End file.
